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The column is left searching Roget's Thesaurus for something to say when struck by the food critic's curse - ordinariness

THOUGH there may be other words for it, there can be no question that Dr Peter Mark Roget - born in London in 1779, son of a Swiss clergyman - was a very clever feller.

A medical graduate at 19, despite himself having suffered from typhus and consumption, he was physician, writer, inventor and secretary of the Royal Society.

His other interests included London's sanitation system, the use of laughing gas - which may or may not have accounted for his lifelong depression - and improving the kaleidoscope.

He also invented a slide rule to work out mathematical roots and a portable chess set and came up with a device to keep food chilled, which he called a frigidarium.

The Royal Society made him its Fellow of the Month as recently as April 2006.

The frigidarium, said the eulogy, was "an idea whose time had not yet arrived".

Roget's greatest claim to immortality, however, is his thesaurus, published in 1852, assiduously thumbed by generations of grammar school boys (and girls) and never out of print thereafter. The 1998 Penguin edition presently on this desk says on the cover that it had sold 32 million copies worldwide.

Roget's Thesaurus, in short, is a dictionary of synonyms. Under "ordinary", the index includes middling, unastonishing, usual, typical and "not bad"

though, goodness knows, there are plenty more.

Though arguably stuck in neutral, the crunch for "ordinary" is that if something is "very ordinary" it doesn't move it up a gear, but down.

Ordinariness is the consuming curse of the food critic. If the experience is dreadful, readers revel in the rollocking; if it's outstanding, they're grateful for the recommendation.

If it's mundane, middling, mediocre - if, as in these parts they'd put it, it is neither nowt nor summat - how on earth is the daily bread to be buttered?

So to Sunday lunch at the 143-bedroom Redworth Hall Hotel, a Jacobean mansion between Darlington and Shildon and now part of the worldwide and upmarket Barcelo group.

The hotel may not be ordinary at all.

It may be wonderful; it certainly says that it is. "A rural hideaway set in beautiful grounds," says the superlative-rich brochure.

Out of the blizzard, we headed down a corridor past a cabinet full of teddy bears, mostly wearing woolly hats and scarves. They had the right idea.

Three course Sunday lunch is £12.50, these days relatively inexpensive. You can almost hear the management meeting, debating whether to charge £19.50 and a bit of sparkle or £12.50 and get more bums on seats.

Thus a pleasant restaurant was fairly full, the service cheerful and efficient save for the mildly irritating use of the word "Yuz" - "as in "Everything all right for yuz there?" The additional "there"

is to differentiate from a table 15 yards away.

A big lad carried great salvers of food as Atlas carried the earth and at that he was clearly world class.

From a four-part choice, I'd begun with a chicken terrine so utterly without character that it could have won international recognition from the bland of milk and honey. The lamb with a mint and apricot farce was limp and languid - "samey" as the good Dr Roget might have said - the vegetables dull, the carrot curious.

If that were ordinary, the sticky toffee pudding scored fewer marks yet - lukewarm, unctuously sweet, wrong end of the sticky altogether.

The Boss, to be fair, considered that she'd fared rather better. The Caesar salad had fresh parmesan, the sea bass risotto was good if inadequate, the lemon possett fine.

The Redworth offers a water menu, too - "Why not upgrade your water?" it asks, and rises to £5.75 a bottle. The Boss asked for tap water, a request accepted without demur.

A pot of bitter coffee for two was £5.95 - absurd - a pint of Black Sheep £3.30.

Against such a background, we predictably fell to discussing the word "ordinary".

The Boss thought, and as usual was correct, that in Dickens' day it had also meant a table d'hote meal.

The Oxford offers 26 definitions and umpteen sub-definitions, ranging from a hangman's chaplain to a gambling den.

It can also describe the sort of place where that kind of fixed price menu was served.

Thus we departed, out of the ordinary and into the snow.

SEVERAL readers have commented upon the number of obituaries in these columns of late. One, his father subject of a spirited send-off, left in appreciation a little something behind the bar of the Hole in the Wall in Darlington market place.

None on duty, sadly, had heard of the parting gesture.

The pub has long been known for Thai bar meals, still excellent value for around a fiver and with hand-pulled Magnet with which to wash them down.

We went with John Burton, Tony Blair's constituency agent until recent changing times, a man these days walking two inches taller since a replacement operation on his footballers' knees.

The elongation had also been noticed by Hazel Blears, the 4ft 10in Communities Minister, who enquired if she might have something similar.

"I'm sorry," said John, "but I don't think that's quite how it works."

CHASTE is a pretty unexpected name for a restaurant, in Hawes or anywhere else. Pure whimsy, perhaps, though it reflects the spirit of the place well enough.

Everything's home-made, claims the menu, even the butter and the jam.

While that may not be true - the black pudding, for example, was Gloucester old spot from Kirkby Stephen - the intention's honourable, nonetheless.

Hawes is at the top end of Wensleydale, a town full of eating places and - on a day when snow was forecast - of folk basking in the sun outside them.

Chaste offered everything from all-day breakfast - with a vegetarian option - to main courses like vegetable hotpot with cheese dumplings or blue cheese and honey glazed walnut salad, mostly £6.95.

Friendly service included a big lass with something written across her chest. Whatever it said, it wasn't "chaste".

A waiter was asked what teas they had. "Hundreds, just name one," he said and when asked for strawberry and summatorother brewed up within minutes.

The cream of mushroom soup was just about the best in memory, not just something frogmarched, emasculated, through a food processor. The accompanying roll was better yet.

The black pudding came with mustard sauce and mash, a good lunchtime combination.

It was tempting to go the whole post-hog and try the home-made ice cream, but unfortunately there was a vintage bus to catch. More chaste less speed.

PETER Birch in Saltburn - "No connection with the pub, other than being a very satisfied customer" - draws attention to this weekend's beer festival at the Captain Cook Inn in Staithes, a bit further down the coast.

Billed as the "English Heritage Beer Festival", to mark St George's Day, it features 22 beers from 22 different English breweries and a skinful of proper sausages, too.

Staithes village hall this weekend is also hosting the second Yorkshire Heritage Coast Traditional Jazz Festival.

Eric Smallwood in Middlesbrough particularly recommends the Railroad Bill Band, but may have a couple of beers as well.

and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you get by crossing a cow, a sheep and a young goat.

The milky baa kid, of course.

10:25am Tuesday 15th April 2008

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